


Not Words but Meanings

by octobergryphon, QueenVee1



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Character Death, Deathly Hallows Prologue NON-COMPLIANT, F/F, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Infant Death, Miscarriage, Multi, Original Character Death(s), Polyamory, Threesome - F/F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-23
Updated: 2016-06-23
Packaged: 2018-07-16 18:15:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7278619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/octobergryphon/pseuds/octobergryphon, https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenVee1/pseuds/QueenVee1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eight years after the Battle of Hogwarts, the Wizarding world is moving forward in the 21st Century. </p><p>Enemies and darkness are beginning to rise again. </p><p>Those who died, don't always stay that way.</p><p>Acquaintances become friends, friends become lovers, lovers become family. Then it gets... complicated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Words but Meanings

_June 1, 1998_

Summer breezes moved through the open window, pushing through the drawn curtains. Percy couldn’t stand keeping the small room closed up anymore, needing to do something to alleviate the feeling of the world collapsing in on him.

He was surprised to see the owl pecking at his window, knowing that anyone could be watching, even in Muggle Scotland. His supervisor had always been circumspect, using Muggle as well as magical ways of contacting his agents. Percy took the weathered parchment, noting the seal, and offering a small cracker in thanks before the owl disappeared silently into the night.

They were dead. His son and lover were dead, and there wasn’t anything he could do about it. No spell, no words, no favors to call in at the Ministry, no gods to call to hear his pleas, no sacrifices to be made.

Percy had promised them they’d be safe, hiding in the south of Spain, away from the main fighting and destruction of Voldemort and his Death Eaters. He’d been there to see his lover grow round with child, felt him kick and bruise his mother with his little feet. Took her swearing with laughs, and the scratches on his arm from her nails were still healing, looking as if to scar over freckles, as he held and watched her bring their son into the world.

His left hand was bare. Penny had refused to marry him, saying that she was an independent, modern witch, and any person that dare call her son a bastard would get the nasty side of her wand, as well as her fist. 

It had only been two days ago when he had kissed her good-bye, and run his hand over the soft red-blond fuzz on the top of his son’s head. He could still feel the slight weight of his son in his hands, the impossibly soft skin, tracing a gentle finger over the almost invisible eyebrows. Penny’s scent, always of light pine and ink, still clung to his sweater, the one she had stolen from him when she was pregnant, since it was the only one that fit.

Somehow he had made it to the bed in the small safe house. Hands hanging loosely between his legs, head bent. The parchment letter with the blue sealing wax lay in a crumpled mess on the floor by his feet. The first time he read it, the words blurred impossibly and he’d had to run his finger under them to track the actual overly tidy script. 

_It is my deepest regret to inform you… killed in action... April 30th, 1998… found at safe house..._

He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t feel anything but ripping agony and emptiness in his hands.

He wondered where the broken noise was coming from, not recognizing that the keening was him.

✷ ✷ ✷

_June 7, 1998_

“Mum, I’m fine. I can do this on my own. I _need_ to do this on my own.”

Lavender Brown’s hazel eyes glared at her mother, defiance and stubbornness painting her features. 

“I know you can, honey, but I’m here if you need me.”

“I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Leaving her mother in the atrium, Lavender pushed her way through the bustle of the Ministry’s main lobby toward the lifts. Inside the car, she moved until her back was pressed against the cool mirrored surface of the wall, making sure she wouldn’t be surprised from behind. When the lift lurched to the right, her hand gripped the railing at her back, the metal digging into her palm. The other people in the car spoke softly amongst themselves, paying her no mind. That was more than fine for Lavender. She didn’t want to pretend she was fine. It didn’t come as easily to her anymore.

As the smoke cleared and the bodies of the fallen had been collected, dawn light had illuminated the rubble that had been the Gryffindor’s home for seven years. In that single night, she’d seen more horror and felt more fear than she’d ever thought possible. She’d seen friends fall. She’d protected herself with lethal force. She’d matured more in those few hours than she had in the previous seventeen years prior.

Pulled from memories as the the lift emptied, Lavender stared at her reflection, not recognizing the girl - no, _woman_ \- looking back at her. Her eyes were too wide, her cheeks flushed with pink as she struggled to maintain her composure. She could do this. _She had to do this._

When the doors parted before her, she took a shaky breath and moved with purpose. A queue had formed outside the office of the Wizarding Examinations Authority, yet the hallway was as quiet as a tomb. She took her place at the back of the line, avoiding eye contact with anyone who came and went. Her fingers idly spun the ring on her hand, a mantra repeating over and over in her head.

_This is it. This is is. This is it._

Before she knew it, she was at the front of the line, heart beating heavily in her chest.

“Name?”

Jumping at the bark of a question, Lavender took a step closer to the desk. “Lavender Brown.”

“Brown?” he asked. She nodded. The man sorted through the stack of papers in front of him until he found the one he was looking for. “Congratulations, Miss Brown,” he said, holding the roll of parchment out toward her with a subdued smile.

With shaky hands, Lavender accepted the paper, stepping out of the way as the man moved onto the next student. Her eyes stared at the roll in her hand as she made her way down the hallway and back to the lift. 

She was _supposed_ to have this parchment handed to her in the Great Hall by the Headmaster. She was _supposed_ to raise her last of pumpkin juice beneath the floating candles as she and her classmates celebrated the culmination of seven years of hard work. They were _supposed_ to crawl back into those dinky boats and cross the lake as they had when they were firsties, leaving behind the castle she’d come to love and associate with _home_.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. This wasn’t how _any_ of it was supposed to happen. 

She kept herself together until she stepped into the lift and was alone again. The tears streamed down her face as she clutched the certificate to her chest. She scrubbed angrily at her cheeks as the car slowed to a stop, bringing her back to the atrium. Lavender bit the inside of her cheek to keep the sobs at bay as the doors opened, throwing her back into the noise and press of people. 

  
_Be it known that having honorably fulfilled all the requirements_  
_imposed by the authorities of this institution_  
_the Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and the Ministry of Magic_  
_do therefore confer to_  
**Lavender Brown**  
_this certificate of graduation_  
_with all the honors, rights and privileges that accompany this achievement._

_On this day second day of May in the year nineteen hundred ninety eight_

✷ ✷ ✷

_Late June, 1998_

The little cottage in Wales was away from every memory he had in his homeland, and somehow managed to be some kind of balm. Sleep was elusive, plagued with his mother’s cries of grief, the surprise of George’s face as the wall fell on him, images of his son, broken and battered. Whiskey did nothing to dull his feelings, but at least Percy cared less as he sat barefoot in the sand, watching the waves crash around the rocks.

Percy received his new orders from his department head shortly after the Battle of Hogwarts. It was just as well, really. His family didn’t want him, his son was dead, and there wasn’t anything left for him in England.

He was to report to the capital of Bulgaria, to work in the Muggle government. The man who had held the position previously had been reassigned to Germany, and Percy was both young enough and experienced enough to step into the position. A little magic, a suggestive potion here, some memory alteration there, and he would start by the early fall.

The kicker was that he was going to have to live like a Muggle. This was deep undercover work, so the minimum of magic was to be used. So many Death Eaters and the like had been in the Ministry of Magic as well as the Bulgarian Parliament that the current Ministry was on the lookout for any new magical presence. They were overly sensitive, and rightly so, to outsiders. 

He looked over the folder containing his new identity.

_Yasha Andreievich Videnov...Russian Mother, Bulgarian Father… degree in International Politics…_

There were official documents in the papers: birth certificates, exam results, diplomas from both Oxford and the university in Sofia. A total life history he hadn’t lived, but would spend the summer learning, both through rote and magic. Thankfully he already spoke Spanish and German, but the immersion lessons and spells to learn Russian and Bulgarian - his head already hurt.

It was better than feeling his heart.

✷ ✷ ✷

_Late July, 1998_

Brushing the hair from her face, Lavender cast one final look around her bedroom. Her boxes had been shrunk and were ready to travel. What she’d left on her walls - portraits of musicians she’d cut from _Witch Weekly_ , a picture of herself and Parvati taken in Cornwall during summer hols after fourth year, a bouquet of flowers she’d caught at her brother’s wedding - would stay here until she came back.

 _If_ she came back.

“You ready?”

Lavender nodded at her mother, more ready to get out of Britain than she’d ever been. “I’m ready.”

✷ ✷ ✷

_Late August 1998_

Saul Croaker had taken over the Department of Mysteries over the short summer (short and long, time had moved oddly since June). He had summoned Percy to their usual meeting place, near Hadrian’s Wall, still considered the wilds, and the crossroads added some protection and strength to the magic wrought there.

“Flying on an airplane would take considerably less time than a train, you know, Weasley,” Croaker said from beneath a bushy black moustache. Magical means of travel were out of the question. Once Percy left this meeting, his cover would be in place.

Percy shook his head, blowing out the smoke from his cigarette before answering. 

“I’ll take the train all the same, thank you. It’s only three days, with an overnight,” he said. Not much had changed since botched flying lessons with Madame Hooch in his first year: he detested flying, and the thought of being completely out of control in a sealed train box made his skin crawl.

Croaker took in the man leaning on the wall next to him. Weasley had always been lean, almost coltish when he had started with the Ministry and Brode had swept him into the Unspeakables. The past five years, especially this summer, had turned him from all arms and legs to an almost whipcord hardness. This man was more at ease with his body, what it could do, and what he could do with it.

Gone was Percy Weasley, spectacles and fiery red hair, freckles, awkward speeches and too many books. Instead stood a man with dark hair, just a touch too long and sweeping down to his collar, and neat goatee. Long legs encased in dark jeans and boots, a cream sweater under a bulky jacket, hiding broad shoulders. Croaker looked to find anything of Weasley in the man, and was hard pressed to see it. 

He handed Weasley a small packet of papers. “This is the information for your handler in Sofia. If you don’t make contact in two weeks, she’ll come after you.”

Percy’s eyebrow went up at the mention of “she”. It wasn’t often, even in this modern age, that women were allowed to run this kind of operation. He tucked the packet into his jacket, and looked at Croaker expectantly.

“Best of luck, then,” Croaker said after a moment of silence. The absolute stillness combined with a blue-green stare was unnerving. He Apparated with a crack, leaving Percy to stare out across the dark moor.

✷ ✷ ✷

_Late October, 1998_

Sofia was glorious in autumn.

Getting to that glorious autumn had been painful.

*~*~*~*

A week after his briefing with Croaker, Percy had boarded the train in London. He passed the platform for Hogwarts, thankful beyond what was reasonable that he was able to plan his trip for after the beginning of the ragged school year. Classes were going to be held in the remains of the castle, letting the seventh years finish, and the rest figuring out where to go. He didn’t envy Professor - now Headmistress - McGonagall the task.

He didn’t think he could handle the hoards of children, the oblivious wizards and witches who didn’t blend in as well as they thought. Trying not to look for snatches of bright red and orange.

Two large suitcases and a backpack were all that Percy had with him. It fit his persona as a freshly finished intern and graduate student. Some books that he couldn’t part with, clothes, files. It was enough to get him started before meeting up with his handler. 

He thanked the porter roughly, and moved to his compartment, thankful that it was a single. Cramped, with only one window, and not a lot of space for his long limbs, but enough for the three day trip. The whistle blew, and Percy felt the familiar movement of a train pulling out of a station.

*~*~*~*

Three cups of tea had been one too many, Percy thought as he made his way to the shared loo. Darkness had fallen some hours before, silencing children and parents alike. He tapped his fingers against his left thigh as he waited in the short line. Bleeding hell, it was like being back at the Burr -

He quashed the thought before it had even fully formed.

Finishing his business, washing his hands, he cupped the last bit of running water and splashed his face with it. Looking in the mirror, he saw hollow cheeks, disheveled hair, and hell looking back at him.

The pounding at the door shook him out of his staring. 

“Oi! What’re you doing in there? Shaving your legs?” Shrilled the woman outside the door, using the flat of her hand to shake the door near off the handles.

He pushed past her without a word, sliding the door to his compartment with a sharp click. The snoring coming from the heavyset man in the next compartment over meant that Percy wasn’t going to be getting any more sleep that night. He pushed the window open the littlest bit, striking a match and closing his eyes as the nicotine hit his system.

Germany was no better. Nor was Austria. The food was wretched, and there was hardly enough time for any of the passengers to pop off at the train stations to stretch their legs.

Stepping off of the platform, feeling vaguely dingy and spongy, like a bit of mold on bread, Percy blinked in the sunlight. He had read that Bulgaria had a vastly different climate than England, but the dry heat was a surprise.

✷ ✷ ✷

_February 2nd, 2000_

“Lav?”

“She’s in the kitchen.”

“Why on Gaia’s green earth would she be in there? Does she want to kill us?

“ _Ha Ha_. Very funny,” Lavender growled playfully, smiling as her girlfriend rounded the corner to the kitchen. The former Gryffindor laughed at the absurd amount of hearts adorning Cat’s scrubs. “Wow. It’s like _Madame Puddifoots_ threw up on you.”

“I have no idea what that means, but I’ll take it as a compliment.” Grinning, Cat kissed her quickly on the lips before snatching the glass of wine Lavender had been in the middle of pouring and jumping out of reach with a laugh.. 

“Hey! That was for me,” came the huff from Lavender as her wine was stolen.

Chuckling, Cat pulled herself over the back of the sofa and collapsed onto the cushions on the other side, impressively keeping the wine from spilling as she did so. “Has anyone ever told you’re especially gorgeous when you’re pissed?”

“Most have known better than to piss me off in the first place,” Lavender warned, reaching into the cabinet in the tiny kitchen to grab another glass. “Steven? You want a glass?”

“No,” the man answered, padding into the room with bare feet. The sweatpants he wore hung low on his hips, two days worth of stubble making his already handsome features more appealing. “Too much noise in my head. Don’t want to dull it.” He opened the fridge, staring at its contents in contemplation.

“All I _want_ to do is dull the noise in my head,” Cat hummed, pulling the tie from her hair to let the strands fall against her shoulders. “I’m on the schedule for a double next Friday. I won’t be able to go dancing.”

“What?” Lavender frowned. She’d been looking forward to dancing in a dark room with pulsating music where conversation was impossible and people had to rely on body language to communicate. The clubs in Paris were some of the best she’d ever been to. “Can’t you switch with someone?”

“I either go in on Friday, or work Valentine’s day. As this is our first together…” Cat trailed off, throwing an apologetic look at her girlfriend.

“No, no. I get it. We can go dancing another night.” Taking a spot on the couch beside her lover, Lavender tucked her legs under her body, curling against the blonde as she took a sip of her wine. “Maybe next weekend?”

“I’m out next weekend. Gig in Marseilles,” Steven said, taking a drink from his glass of water as he sat on the other side of Lavender. 

Setting her wine glass on the table, Lavender turned and took Steven’s hand in hers, bringing his fingertips to her lips. She kissed each one in turn then pressed one to the middle of his palm, the muscles under his skin more pronounced from years of pressing keys on a piano. “They’re always so cold after you’ve been playing.”

“Well if someone wasn’t always hot, we’d be able to turn the heat up a bit,” he answered, small smile curling his lips. Lavender couldn’t help the snort that escaped as she heard a ‘hmph’ of indignation from behind her.

“If we didn’t leave it colder,” Cat defended, leaning forward to rest her chin on Lavender’s shoulder as she smiled at Steven, “we’d never get to experience _her_ feet literally turning to ice and then pressing against us in bed.”

This time it was Lavender’s turn to be offended. “Oh, come off it! They’re not that bad.” Her eyes caught the comical look her lovers shared over her shoulder. “Is it really that bad?”

Steven shrugged, leaning forward to press a kiss to her lips. His smirk was just a bit bigger as he pulled back. “You could always wear socks to sleep.” He laughed at the look of horror the girls gave him at the suggestion. “Oh. Right. I forgot socks in bed was “non grata” with you two.”

“No self respecting person wears socks in bed,” Lavender said, shaking her head in mock disgust.

“Or pajamas,” Cat added, eyebrows raising for emphasis. 

Both girls’ smiles widened as Steven’s hands came up to cup their cheeks, thumbs grazing against their full lower lips. Lavender’s eyes fluttered shut, stomach still alive with butterflies when they touched. The ease and frequency with which their skin brushed against each other's was intoxicating. She was still uncertain how they’d gotten this to work but she couldn’t imagine it ever being any different than it was right then. 

The three of them.

Together. 

Happy. 

_Loved._

✷ ✷ ✷

_Summer, 2003_

Five years spent building his career, moving where Croaker sent him, meeting with his handler, who he just called Mrs. Black (the irony wasn’t lost on him), meant that he was now in some position to move people and policies in more direct ways.

He was in the private box of Dobrev, watching _Le Sylphide_ with the man’s wife. Dobrev was too clever by far to be impelled openly, but his wife was known to be persuaded to make her opinions known.

It had begun with an invitation from herself. Cocktails first, Percy in black, onyx cufflinks flashing subtly in the light. Gosproja Dobreva was in a column of gold chiffon, gloves to her elbows, diamonds winking in her ears and around her throat. He greeted her with a short bow, and brought that gloved hand to his lips, fingers brushing against the pulse of her wrists just past what was polite.

Percy had learned to be charming, at least as Yasha. Sly looks from under his eyelashes, a hand on the exposed skin on lower backs, the press of a body just too close. 

During the first solo, his left fingers danced along the outside of her right knee, seemingly accidental. He saw the flush work up from her neck, and she shifted her body towards him. Percy’s lips brushed her ear as he commented on the ballet. 

By the intermission, he knew he had her. They slipped back into the box after being seen by the important people, and as the lights went down, Percy maneuvered Gosproja Dobreva against the velvet walls. His left hand shifted across the chiffon of her dress, rubbing his thumb against her hip, mouth pressed to the spot under her ear.

She never heard the spell he muttered against her skin.

Percy implanted the suggestion for the legislation his boss wanted to go through in Parliament, and then left her with hazy memories of the dancing, and the time they had together. He didn’t need to touch her beyond what had already happened, letting her imagination do the rest of the work. Apparently, she had been thinking of dark Yasha Videnov for quite some time.

He kissed her hand at the door of her home, where she looked over her shoulder before closing the door and greeting her husband.

Percy sighed as he turned around. Another day, another job done.

✷ ✷ ✷

_October 2004_

She’d tried. She’d really, truly tried. France had been her home, _their home,_ for over five year,s and though she'd planned on raising her family here, now everywhere she looked was surrounded in bitter heartbreak.

In an instant - in the squeal of tires on wet pavement, the crunch of metal, the screams of pain - everything she loved had been ripped away. They were gone. She was alone, and she couldn’t come back to _their_ flat and sleep in _their_ bed and pretend that her life wasn’t crumbling around her.

Lavender was getting increasingly good at running away when bad things happened to her. First she’d left Britain. Now she was leaving France. She wondered if she should just disappear completely; find an island in the South Pacific, or a tiny town in Russia, or even escape to the States. 

Anywhere that would not be colored in tragedy and horror for her.

But Hannah Brown was calling her only daughter home with the promise of family and support, and Lavender just wasn’t sure she’d be able to make it without the help. Following her lovers into the darkness had crossed her mind, but she could hear their voices in her head, even now, angry that the thought had ever developed.

She took nothing. No bags. No clothes. Nothing that could break her heart all over again when her eyes landed on it and their faces flashed into her conscious. She took nothing but a sealed box of pictures and parchments. A small voice in her head reasoned that she was too hurt now, but she would hate herself if she had _nothing_ to remember them by. Perhaps the pain would be too much and the box would remain locked away, the photos disintegrating with age, smiling faces full of love and promise never seeing the sun again.

But maybe one day she’d be able to look in the box at their memories - pictures of summer hols in Madagascar, a tattered bit of paper with lyrics scrawled across it in his handwriting, a black and white sonogram with the name _Baby Williams_ printed in block script - and if she’d destroyed everything she’d never forgive herself.

She walked out the door and never looked back.

✷ ✷ ✷

_Winter, 2005_

The soloist in _Rigoletto_ was young, and this was his debut with the national company. Luckily, his soaring voice was enough to cover the moan coming from Ivan. The assistant to the Prime Minister had the small stick of information Percy needed in the front pocket of his trousers. 

Percy had pushed Ivan against the wall, one hand in his hair, the other in the middle of his shoulder blades.

”Molya sŭr, Molya," Ivan whimpered. He held as still as he could, having played this game before, having played it with _Yasha_ before. That was why Percy had to go farther with this man than he did most of his marks. Too much magic on the brain made the brain unreliable.

Make the mark into a mush of senses and submission? More effective. 

Percy slid his hands over Ivan’s hip, alternating pull the man against him, and pushing him to the wall. Whispering commands and lavishing praise in his ears. At one point, Percy slipped his hand into the front left pocket, filching the data stick and replacing it with his own. 

He pulled Ivan’s hands over his head, and squeezed around his wrists with one hand. 

“Keep them there, stay still. Until intermission. Then you may leave to take care of your problem,” Percy growled out in Ivan’s ear. “Understood?”

“Da. Da,” Ivan murmured. 

Percy left the man, confident that he wouldn’t notice the stick missing, and confident that he wouldn’t move until intermission. By then Percy would be well on his way to meeting Mrs. Black outside of the city.

✷ ✷ ✷

_Spring, 2006_

It was late. Merlin, but was it late, Percy thought as he used to the key to unlock the door to his small apartment. The moon had already set, and the city had settled into the quiet of sleep. The wards had already been taken down; Percy lived in a Muggle building, and it was dark in the entryway when he whispered the spell. 

It had glowed the subtlest purple, letting him know that no one was inside, and that no one had poked at the wards. At least he had retained something from Bill before leaving eight years ago. 

Boris met him at the door, chirriping his irritation that his evening nap had been interrupted, and that there wasn’t food immediately available. He rubbed himself around Percy’s legs, even as Percy moved to hang his coat and toe off his shoes. 

“Koeto, Boris? Kak ste, imasha li khubav den?” He bent over to scritch the Maine Coon under the chin, listening to purr emanating from the spoiled beast. A coworker had brought in a box of kittens from a local shelter, and Boris had taken one look at Percy and tried to climb up his shirt with tiny needle claws. Percy hadn’t meant to come home with a cat, much less that grew to over fifteen pounds and liked to swim in the toilet bowl if Percy forgot to put it down. 

He’d been in a late night cabinet meeting, going over election strategy and trying to find potential weaknesses in the other parties. The men had been talking over cheap takeout and writing in notebooks, on the white boards with arrows. The election wasn’t even scheduled to take place until the next year, but already the politicking and moving were starting. Percy was tired just thinking about it. 

Luckily, his boss had told him to take the weekend off, and Percy had every intention of taking it, after making his report to his _other_ supervisors. 

First, sleep. 

He didn’t even bother hanging up his suit, knowing it needed to go to the cleaners - was that sauce on the lapel? Cuff links, watch, and wallet on the dresser, glasses on the pile of books on the night stand. Glass of water next to the books, with distinctive cat tongue marks on the side. Left in his boxers and undershirt, Percy propped the window open, and crawled under the blankets, sighed, and fell asleep with the smells of blossoming trees wafting in. 


End file.
